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Watching Yusuf from afar has been Nicolò’s favourite pastime for decades now.
It’s the sweetest pleasure he’ll allow himself, learning Yusuf in much the same way he has learned about every nook and crack and creaking board of their new home, day after day, one precious detail at a time.
He knows how the sun brings out the gold in Yusuf’s skin; how Yusuf relishes the sound of rain pattering gently against their roof, the way he’ll close his eyes just to savour it. He knows now, how Yusuf’s eyes will gleam with joy for a sunset, and strawberries, and a drizzle of honey on his bread; and how he was never happier than when they discovered a litter of kittens in their garden, and the tiny, scoop-sized things were soon swarming his lap. His smile was so bright, it made his nose crinkle, and Nicolò could have basked in that sight forever.
Perhaps it is only love that makes him notice– the lovely shape of Yusuf’s mouth; the inviting line of his neck, the broadness of his shoulders.
Perhaps it’s only love that makes him pause by the kitchen window, hands still caked with flour and bits of dough, and see wonder where Yusuf is merely scrubbing their laundry over the washboard outside. And if it is, then Nicolò doesn’t mind. He only wishes he could be subtle, the way he used to be – the way he thought he was, before Yusuf proved to him just how incorrect a notion that was.
Even now, Yusuf catches him staring. And though he doesn’t glance back at Nicolò again, all that time he keeps smiling to himself, soft under his beard, as if he were savouring some private secret right there on his tongue.
It’s only after, when they’re sitting in the shade of the walnut tree, sharing dried apples and apricots as their laundry billows on the clothesline, that Yusuf takes his hand.
He kisses the knuckles, pale even in the hottest summer, and when he looks up to meet Nicolò’s eyes, Nicolò nearly shivers from the sudden intimacy of it all.
“I thought, perhaps, there was something you wanted,” Yusuf says. “But I know you enough to know you’d never ask.”
Nicolò’s cheeks colour instantly. There is something he wants, something he always wants–
His gaze drops to Yusuf’s lips before he can help it, and that only makes Yusuf’s smile softer, kinder.
“You can ask,” Nicolò hears him murmur. “You can ask anything of me.”
Nicolò swallows.
It’s the longest, most breathless moment before he finds himself whispering, “Kiss me.”
Eyes twinkling, Yusuf obliges.
This is not their first kiss; nor is it the second, or the third. And yet, it feels so new. It’s delicate, cautious somehow.
Nicolò remembers the passion of their first kiss, the fire it sparked in his belly, scorching and all-consuming; the way Yusuf pulled him close until their bodies were flush together from chest to hips to knees, and proceeded to kiss the breath out of his lungs.
That’s not how it is now. No, this is, it’s a slow, gentle heat, like a pot simmering quietly over the fire. It’s as if they’re meeting all over again; two strangers only just getting acquainted with each other; only, it is not a stranger’s, but Yusuf’s hand touching his cheek. It’s Yusuf’s fingers tipping Nicolò’s chin up, his lips kissing worship on Nicolò’s lips; his tongue stroking the soft inside of Nicolò’s mouth, filling up spaces he never knew were empty before.
And he wants to learn this too, Nicolò thinks as he winds his arms around Yusuf’s neck; he wants to find out all the ways Yusuf can kiss him and taste them all – the gentle, and the burning, and all the in-betweens, until he can name them all– until he knows them, like he knows Yusuf, like he knows their home.
Yusuf pulls away all too soon, but he lingers close, in the warmth of their mingling breaths.
“I thought you would at least say please,” he teases.
Nicolò tackles him into the soft grass in retaliation, but Yusuf only rolls them over, grinning down at him from his vantage point.
“I’ll never ask anything of you, ever again,” Nicolò declares, chest shaking with laughter. His cheeks have never felt so wonderfully hot before. “You’re an awful, terrible, horrible man!”
“Yes, I am,” Yusuf concurs, leaning down with sweet, sweet purpose. “Oh. A veritable menace.”